After All
by kytheria
Summary: [COMPLETE] When you live in a world, it gets in to who you thought you'd be... FxS
1. Chapter One

**After All**

Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop is copyright Sunrise/Bones/Bandai Visual. I am not Sunrise/Bandai Visual. Therefore, I don't own it.

A/N: This is my first attempt at a fic in the first-person present tense. Consider it an experiment. While it may seem like it at first, it will _not_ be a typical SxF story. There will be character development in this story, so if you object to seeing changes in canon characters' personalities, I hope you'll forgive me. The title of this story comes from the song of the same name by Dar Williams.

**10.24.05 A/N:** This story was originally posted 5.03. It has been reposted with the song lyrics removed per terms.

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So. The son of a bitch is dead. Serves him right.

When I was growing up, people used to say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead. I can remember that now, but what good does it do me? All that time I spent reclaiming my past, trying to figure out who Faye Valentine really was-- none of it matters now. I found nothing. Sure, I can remember making that stupid videotape, and my classmates, my family... but none of that matters because I'd always assumed that I'd be able to merge that past with my present. I'd know who I was and that would tell me who I'd become.

I still don't know what I'd hoped to find. A home perhaps, instead of this empty patch of earth. A love, instead of this horrible emptiness. A family. Someone who'd understand.

Who was I kidding?

I had those things, but I was so damned busy chasing my past that I ignored what was right in front of my face. The Bebop was my home. Jet, Ed, Spike, even that damned dog Ein, they were my family. My comrades. They were even more important to me than a real family, because we chose each other. And although I'd never admit it to anyone, I had love.

Oh, I know he didn't love me. He was too wrapped up in his precious Julia to see me, but that didn't make it any less real. I loved him. I loved him and he walked away from me. I should have shot the bastard when I had the chance. At least then, he would have died for a reason.

I hate him. I love him. He's dead. _Goddamnit_.

There are tears running down my face. I hate crying. It's weakness, and Faye Valentine, whoever the fuck she is, isn't weak. OK, so I like to gamble now and then, but that's not a weakness. It's just a fun little pastime. I'm a bounty hunter, for christsake. I can handle a weapon better than most men. I can fight. I am _not_ weak!

Even that lunkhead started to respect me before he died. I'd waited so long to hear him admit it, that I was worth something. When those words finally left his lips-- _Faye, I need you_!-- I would have followed him anywhere. I would have died for him, but I just stood there and let him walk away. I stood there, and he died.

He'd really dead. Spike's not coming back. I didn't stop him.

Jet told me later that there was nothing I could have done. I think he knew how I felt, and that just made it worse. He was so nice to me when we found out. It's surreal to me now, remembering that time. It seems like so long ago, instead of just three weeks. He told me I could stay there, on the Bebop, the only home I had, but I couldn't do it. Spike was still there. I'd hear his voice in my head when I was taking a shower, yelling at me for using all the hot water, or when I was eating, when he'd say I wasn't doing my share of the work. I'd see him sprawled out on that damned yellow couch. I'd hear him criticizing my clothes, my laziness, everything, until it was just too much. I had to leave.

Jet understood. He gave me more than my share from the last bounty we'd captured and wished me well. I told him I'd be back to visit, and then I left. I think about him sometimes, all alone with only his bonsai to keep him company, and the emptiness inside me gets a little larger, but I can't go back. Not yet, and maybe not ever.

Goddamnit! I don't know what to do anymore. I can't keep sleeping in the Red Tail on this barren land where my childhood home once stood. I can't keep waking up in the middle of the night because his face haunts my dreams. I can't keep watching the sky, hoping for a glimpse of the Swordfish II.

I can't keep sitting here, sobbing.

Fuck you, Spike Spiegel. Fuck you for living and fuck you for dying. Fuck you for walking away, for not loving me, for each and every thing you said that hurt me, for those lazy smiles that made me love you. If you were here right now, I'd kill you before you could ever walk away again.

Fuck you for leaving me.

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I limp back to the Red Tail, rubbing my shoulder where the bullet had skimmed. The damn bounty had gotten a few rounds off before I snagged him, but at least I was a few million woolongs richer. I feel myself smirking even as I climbed in the cabin of my beloved ship.

Thanks to several bounty heads and sheer luck at the casinos, my debt was a thing of the past. OK, so maybe it wasn't _sheer_ luck, but hey, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, right? The debt was cleared and I'd started rebuilding my house on Earth.

Who would have thought I'd turn out just as good with a hammer as with my trusty Glock? I took pleasure in seeing my home rise from the ashes. This time, it wasn't just a vision of the past, or a memory, it was a reality that I was making through sweat and determination. It was home.

Jet had came by a few days ago to check on me. Of course, he said he just happened to be in the area, but we both know he was worried. I can't even begin to describe how that made me feel. Someone cared enough to make sure I wasn't laying dead somewhere. He'd stayed a few hours before flying off again to god knows where, probably off to find another bounty. He seemed well enough, although he still had that haunted look in his eyes. I recognize it well enough. I see it every morning in the mirror. Spike's death changed us both.

For the first time, I looked into Jet's face and saw an old man.

I aim the Red Tail towards Earth, zipping through asteroids and debris. Flying like this always reminds me of Spike, his lanky form folded into the seat of the Swordfish II. He flew the way he lived, with that odd laid-back intensity that would have been an oxymoron with anyone else. The lunkhead had class; I'd give him that if nothing else.

Gods, when will I stop missing him?

I almost went back with Jet. He didn't ask, but I knew the offer was there just the same. I could go back to hunting bounties with him, living on the Bebop. I wouldn't have to be alone all the time. I almost did it, but something stopped me.

For the first time ever, I'm doing it alone. I'm taking care of myself. I'm building a life for myself, if that's what you could call it. I'm not sponging off others. And damnit, that's got to count for something.

Maybe I'm growing up.

I can hear his voice in my mind, mocking me. 'Bout damn time', he says, before taking another lazy drag off his ever-present cigarette. I still want to hit him.

I'm still angry at him for leaving, but a part of me understands why he did it. That doesn't mean I have to like it.

I see Mars up ahead and decide to make a quick detour. It's been too long since I visited Ed. I'll pick up something nice for her and drop by to say hello.

Damn. I really am going soft.

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I put down the hammer, lean back on my heels, and take a long swig of beer. The sun is out today in full force, and sweat is running down my face. I hold the cold bottle to my forehead before taking another drink. My hair is escaping the elastic I used to pull it back this morning and my hands are covered in grime. I grimace and wipe them on my t-shirt.

If anyone were to see me right now, there's no way in hell they'd recognize me. Then again, only half a year ago I'd never have let anyone glimpse me in this state. My once manicured hands are now ragged, the nails broken off and the palms callused. My face is free of makeup and currently as dirty as my hands are. I'm dressed in simple Earth fare-- jeans, t-shirt, and hiking boots. Gone are the tight skimpy outfits from before. I don't think I even own anything yellow anymore.

None of that matters now. My home is almost done. I've been living in two of the rooms, the living room and the kitchen, waiting for the rest to get finished, and it will be done within a week. I've already asked Jet and Ed and Ein to come for a visit. They'll arrive two weeks from now.

I survey my handiwork while I finish the beer. The roofing tiles are neatly placed. I can barely tell where I've done the work, and where the professionals I'd hired had finished. I feel a sense of accomplishment I've never known before when I look around. The trees I planted are doing well, and the grass is thriving. Once all this plastic and insulation is gone, it will be a real home-- my home. At long last, I have a place to call my own, and I made it possible. I can't wait for my friends to see it.

Tomorrow I'm making a trip to Mars to buy furniture. I've been debating on whether or now I should go there, to the Red Dragon headquarters. Part of me needs to see where it ended. I need to know where Spike spent his final few minutes. Maybe I just need the closure. Maybe I need to let go.

I still dream about him. I wonder why I put myself through this torture, when it's obvious that had it been me who died, he'd probably only notice because there'd be plenty of hot water on the Bebop.

Why did I love Spike Spiegel? Why do I still? Why does thinking about him still cause a lump in my throat and these stupid tears to fall?

Julia. I can't even think about Spike anymore without thinking about her. It's fitting, I suppose, but how was I ever supposed to compete with her blonde perfection? I felt so cheap next to her, in my skintight clothes and overly made-up face. There were so many differences between the two of us to count, but only one mattered to me.

I needed Spike. She didn't. I needed him, and that dumb fuckhead had to go get himself killed.

I hope it hurt.

Why did he have to suffer? Gods, I'd give everything I have, if only it could have taken away his suffering.

Shit. I'm crying again. This has really got to stop.

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The building is empty, deserted, and as quiet as a tomb. How appropriate. Even in the early afternoon sun, there are heavy shadows lurking in the corners.

The Red Dragons are no more. That would have pleased Spike. The Syndicate collapsed without proper leadership, and I, along with other bounty hunters, cashed in on the easy catches in the weeks following.

I make my way up the staircase slowly, still not entirely certain why I'm here. I'm told it happened here, halfway up. This is where he collapsed. I crouch down, run my fingers over the smooth wood. There's no blood, nothing to mark this spot where he died. Damnit. There should be something. It looks just like all the other steps, and that's not right.

I set the rose I brought on the step above it and pull a knife out of my boot. Not really sure what I'm doing, I press the blade down into the wood and start carving. Several times I have to blow away the wood dust, and I almost cut myself once when the knife slips, but when I'm done, his name is carved into the step.

It doesn't seem like enough. I don't even know his birthday, but I can't forget the day he died, so I add that date below his name.

What next? An epitaph? I can't think of anything fitting, anything I'd want to say that I would leave for anyone to come across, so I put the knife back in my boot and place the rose next to his name.

There's no reason to stay any longer, but I can't leave just yet. I stare at what I've carved, letting my fingers trace the letters until they're burned into my mind. If I were the God-fearing type, I'd say a prayer, but I'm not so I just whisper, "Sayonara, Gorgio" before I stand and walk down the stairs and out of the building.

It feels almost as if someone's watching me as I leave. I force myself to wait until I'm in the Red Tail and on my way home before I let the tears fall.

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"Faye Faye!"

Ed bounces towards me, a wide smile on her face. Ein's following close behind, his short little legs a blur as he tries to keep up with his excited owner. He barks twice as Ed throws her skinny arms around me. I try to bite back a smile but it shows anyway. I ruffle Ed's hair and laugh.

Jet stands back, appraising the house I've worked so hard to build. I meet his eyes over the top of Ed's head. He looks pleased. "Nice work, Faye."

I can't hide the pleasure at his compliment, or the joy at seeing my family again. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get your butts inside already!"

Ed notices the house behind me for the first time. "Is this Faye Faye's home?" she asks, wonder apparent on her face.

"Yup. Like it?"

Ed giggles and throws herself into a cartwheel. "Whee! Ein, look at Faye Faye's house!"

Ein barks again. I swear that damned dog can understand us.

After I show them to their rooms, we gather around the dining room table for dinner. I'm still not the greatest cook around, but I can manage a meal when the urge strikes. I wanted to make something special for them, maybe as payback for treating them so casually aboard the Bebop. They stare at me in amazement when I dish up the food.

"Faye, you can cook?" Jet asks, his eyes wide.

"Foooood!"

I plop down in a chair and pick up my chopsticks. "What, you thought I was just a pretty face?" Jet grin and inspects his plate.

"Ah, bell peppers with beef," he says, pleased.

"Look, there's meat! Wheeee!" Ed starts shoveling the food and even Ein is digging in, his tail waggling happily.

We eat contentedly, swapping tales and laughing. Jet tells me about a bounty head, Roberts, that's been eluding him and we make plans to check it out together the next day-- "for half the bounty, of course," I wink at him. Ed offers her and Tomato's help. For a minute, it's just like old times.

No one mentions the empty chair tucked in the corner, but we all notice it.


	2. Chapter Two

Fuck fuck fuck. Jet was right; this guy is tough. I duck behind a metal support and snap another clip into my Glock, waiting for the bullets to stop whizzing past me.

"You all right, Faye?" I hear Jet yell from across the room, and I jump back into the fray.

"Just peachy!" I answer as I target Roberts, the bounty head, and let a few rounds loose. Damnit, missed him. I retreat behind the support just in time to miss another blast of gunfire. That was close.

"Didn't your mother teach you any manners?" I snarl at the bounty. He laughs and fires again. I see Jet circling around, ready to attack, but Roberts spins and uses the butt of the gun against the side of Jet's head. He drops to the ground.

Fuck. Again.

I don't even think about it, I just leap from behind the beam before he can shoot Jet. "Hey, asshole!" I scream, and the jerk turns toward me, a grin on his ugly face. He dives over the top of the bar as I pull the trigger.

Well, that worked at least. I mentally beseech Jet to hang on before running after Roberts. He escapes out the back and starts sprinting down the alley. I give chase, firing a few times.

He disappears around a corner and I curse, loading my last clip before I plunge after him.

Suddenly I'm flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me. A booted foot kicks the gun from my hand and a second connects with my ribs. I recoil from the pain and use one arm to shield my head as the other goes for the knife in my boot.

I hear a shot ring out and the kicking stops. I roll on to my side and lean forward, my fingers stretching as I try to find the knife hilt.

"Tut tut. That's no way to treat a lady," a familiar voice drawls. I blink in shock before realizing I must be imagining things. The owner of the voice died eight months ago. However, I have a reprieve and I'm not going to waste it. My hand finds the knife and I pull it out, struggling to sit up.

Spike is fighting with the bounty. I must have hit my head too hard when I landed.

The imaginary Spike is advancing on the bounty, forcing him to back up. When he gets within range I plunge my knife into Roberts' thigh. He groans and sinks to the ground, cussing. I pull a pair of handcuffs from the waist of my jeans and snap them around his wrists, gritting my teeth at the movement. Each breath feels like fire and I'm pretty sure several ribs are cracked, if not broken. I purposely focus on the bounty, waiting for the hallucination to go away.

"You'll need this, Romani," my hallucination speaks, holding my Glock out. I sit there staring up at him as he gives me a lopsided grin, his dark green shock of hair sticking out at every angle. He's dressed in his blue suit and a cigarette dangles from his lips. He seems unperturbed by my lack of response; in fact, he appears to be enjoying it.

I take a few deep breaths but he's still there, smirking and holding my gun. He looks so real, down to the smoke wafting from his cigarette. I sigh, ignore the pain in my side, and say the only thing I can think of that doesn't sound crazy.

"Got another smoke?"

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I scoot backwards and prop myself against a wall before lighting the cigarette. After a few drags I'm feeling a little more like myself. The dream-Spike is still there, his hands tucked into his pockets and staring off into space. Roberts is still cussing, demanding to be released, so I borrow a trick from his book and knock him in the temple with the butt of the gun. He slumps back to the ground, silent.

I watch Spike for a few minutes, waiting to see him fade away or start wavering before my eyes. He looks as solid as he ever did, so I speak.

"Who the hell are you?"

He turns to face me, the smirk growing wider. "Me? I'm just an old-fashioned cowboy."

I start shaking. I can't help it; I'm pissed as hell and very confused, not a good combination. People don't just appear from the dead. "Don't fuck with me!" I yell and aim my gun at him. "Who are you and why are you doing this?"

The Spike look-alike raises his eyebrows. "Damn, Faye. I was just trying to help a lady out. You know who I am." Suddenly he looks a little nervous. "Don't you? You didn't lose your memory again, did you?"

I laugh bitterly. "No, my memory is just fine. The Spike Spiegel I knew never thought I was a lady." I take a drag from my cigarette again and wince at the pain in my side. "He's also dead."

He puts his back to the wall next to me and slides down to the ground. "The Faye Valentine I knew never would have left me roses, either."

"How did you--?" I whip my head around to stare at him. He's calmly smoking as if nothing's out of the ordinary.

"I was there. I'm also, in case you missed that part, very much alive."

Suddenly I'm even angrier than before. "You were _there_? You've been alive this whole goddamned time and never let us _know_?"

"What was I supposed to think, Faye? I woke up in a hospital alone. I tried to find the Bebop and it was gone. I had no idea you thought I was dead until I saw you that day at the Syndicate headquarters." He stubs out his cigarette and lights another one right away.

"But when you saw me that day, you could have _said_ something!" I've held on to this anger for months. No way am I letting it go this easily.

"I could have," he agreed.

"_Why didn't you_?" I scream furiously.

He sighs and tilts his head back, staring up at the awning over our heads. "To be honest, I didn't get there until right before you left. I only saw you from the back. I didn't even recognize you at first." He shifts his gaze back to me. "When I realized it was you, you had already taken off in the Red Tail. I didn't have enough time to follow. I cruised around, hoping to find the Bebop, but it wasn't there."

The anger is gone, leaving only a confused acceptance. "No. I came alone that day."

He nods, and we smoke in silence for a few moments.

"Where've you been?" I ask curiously.

He lifts one lanky shoulder before letting it fall again. "Here and there. Hunting bounties. You? Still on the Bebop?"

I shake my head, trying to grasp that Spike is here, alive. It feels too dreamlike and I'm afraid I'll wake up to find that's all it was. "No, I... uh... I'm living back on Earth. Jet and Ed are visiting me. Oh! Jet! He's still in the bar. I've got to go get him." I try to stand but the pain shoots through my middle and I sink back down to the ground with a moan.

Spike slides an arm around me and hefts me on to my feet. Before he can release me, I grab his suit jacket with both hands and stare up into his face. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" I ask in a rush.

I see a wave of sadness pass over his feature before he hides it with another quirky grin. "No. This isn't a dream."

Satisfied, I release him and step back. "Well, cowboy, what are you waiting for? Aren't you gonna grab the bounty there?"

He just stares at me, waiting. I left out a loud huff and roll my eyes. "For a cut of the profits, of course."

He gives a mock bow before lifting the unconscious Roberts from the ground. "What kind of gentleman would I be if I denied a lady's request?"

I let that one pass, but only because I'm too dazed to think straight.

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We're seated around my dining room table again, only this time we're all here, and we're fifteen million woolongs richer. We're all gorging ourselves on sushi rolls that Jet and I prepared after collecting the bounty. Jet keeps patting Spike's shoulder and urging him to have more sea eel. Ed is sneaking pieces of dinner to Ein under the table, and I'm trying to catch glimpses of Spike when no one's looking.

Everyone's in high spirits. Spike hasn't even called me a shrew yet. So why do I feel so unsettled?

I suppose I have the right. It's not ever day that the dead man a woman loves suddenly appears to save her ass.

He hasn't mentioned Julia once.

When we're finished eating, Jet insists on taking care of the dishes and Ed tugs on Spike's arm, dragging him off for the 'grand tour'. I take the opportunity to slip outside for a moment alone. The sun has started setting and soon the sky will be alight with meteors streaking toward the surface of the planet. They scare most people into moving to another colonized planet. Sometimes I wonder why I decided to settle here, where all my work might disappear in an instant due to one well placed rock.

I guess I just like living dangerously. Or maybe I need this tie to my past.

I walk through the gardens to the edge of my land, a secluded spot among the saplings I've planted. The sky is changing colors, gold and red vying for prominence on the horizon. I wrap my arms around my bandaged middle and watch as the daylight dims.

He's alive. It was only a short while ago that I convinced myself he was really dead, yet here he is, being led around my home by a rambunctious thirteen year old. My rival and friend is back, and while I should be overjoyed, I'm just deeply confused.

He explained what happened. I know the hows and the whys and the whens; I'm clear on all that. It's my own emotions that have me all tied up.

I guess I'm afraid. What if he walks away again? I don't know how I can handle that. I'm still so angry that he left in the first place. It's not rational, I know, but I never claimed to be.

Damnit. It was all so much simpler when he was dead.

I dig in my pocket for a pack of cigarettes. I take one, light it with a flick of my zippo, and inhale deeply. I hold the calming nicotine inside my lungs for a few seconds before exhaling a stream of smoke. I watch it drift up, barely visible in the dusky evening.

There are footsteps behind me and I tense, one hand drifting down to hover at my waist, ready to grab the gun tucked in the small of my back. As the steps draw nearer, however, I recognize the stride and let my arm drop back to my side as I take another drag from my cigarette.

"Mind if I join you?" Spike's voice drifts over to me, and I shake my head. He moves to my side and I silently offer him a cigarette. He takes one and lights it up, the flame from the lighter casting a golden glow to his face before he extinguishes it.

"Nice place you got here."

"Thanks."

He exhales, the smoke drifting up into the evening air. "Been here long?"

"About seven months," I answer. "I just finished it a few weeks ago though."

He glances over at me, disbelief visible on his face. "You did this?"

"Most of it. I had to hire a few guys for some of the stuff, but I did the majority of it."

He stares at me wordlessly. I shrug. "It was important to me." I can't explain to him that I turned all the pain into work, into something positive, that this house means more to me than boards and stone and shingles.

He grabs my hand, turns it palm up. The calluses are plainly visible, even in the fading light. He trails a finger over the roughened skin, tickling my hand, before releasing it. "I guess it was", he says simply.

I watch the sky, the reds changing to purples as the last of the light slowly dies. A few of the stars are twinkling already, but the heavens look empty without the moon from my childhood. I miss it.

"You know," I say, stamping out my cigarette butt, "Jet and Ed are going to be here for a few weeks. You're welcome to stay as well, if you want."

He seems surprised by my invitation. Then again, I was never invited to stay aboard the Bebop. I just wormed my way in.

He doesn't answer right away, and I feel my hopes sinking. I'm about to say something, anything, to break the awkward silence when he clears his throat and says, "All right. I will."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Let's head back in. I'll show you your room."

Jet's sitting on the sofa watching TV when we pass through the living room, and Ed is furiously typing away at Tomato with her hands and toes. I lead Spike up the stairs and open a door halfway down the hall. He walks in first, taking in the navy and beige décor while I point out the closet and the light switches. He pokes his head through a second door with a questioning look.

"My own bathroom?"

I can't help but smile. "Surely you remember that I don't like to share, Cowboy. Don't worry, there's plenty of hot water for all of us." I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

"Faye."

"Hmm?" I look back over my shoulder to see him standing in the middle of the room with a smile on his face.

"Thank you."

I feel my chest tighten with emotion, but I just smile back. "No problem. See you later."

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The clock glows in the darkness, mocking my insomnia. I growl and turn over, pulling a pillow over my head. Still my thoughts run on and on, taunting me, swirling around inside my head until I give up the pretense of sleep. I sit up and check the clock for the hundredth time that night.

One thirty in the morning. Damnit.

I push the covers aside and swing my legs to the floor. There's a warm breeze coming in through the open window so I don't bother with the slippers tucked under the bed. I slip out of my room and pad down to the kitchen barefoot in my thigh length t-shirt.

The room is almost pitch black from the absence of moonlight. I leave the light off, loathe to disturb the comforting darkness. I don't need it anyway; I know exactly where everything is. It's not my first late night trip to the kitchen. I reach for the salt shaker, take a few limes from the fruit basket on the counter, and remove a knife from the cutting block. Depositing it all on the table, I open a cabinet and grasp the neck of a bottle. Tequila, the good stuff from Tijuana. There's a shot glass in the same cabinet and I bring that back to the table too.

I cut a lime, fill the shot glass, salt my hand, and begin the ritual. Lick, drink, bite, wince, repeat. The tequila burns on the way down but the warmth is welcome. I refill the glass but leave it there for a moment, mulling over my thoughts.

"Are you going to share?"

I jump at the unexpected voice and a light flares up from the corner of the room as the object of my thoughts lights a cigarette.

"Fucking-A, Spike, don't _do_ that." My heart's racing and I wonder how many years of life he's trying to scare off me.

He chuckles at that. "Well?"

I get another shot glass and pass it to him. I hear him fill the glass and drink twice before lifting my own in a mock salute. "To insomnia."

We take our third shots together and I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really fucking pissed at you."

"For being gone so long?" he asks.

"For leaving in the first place."

We refill our glasses, drink again. I shudder as the tequila hits my stomach.

"Faye?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really fucking pissed at you too."

"For threatening to shoot you?"

"For letting me walk away."

This is the most civilized conversation we've ever had. In the eight months he'd been dead to me, we'd both changed. I wait to see if he'll expound on his remark.

I hear him sigh. The cherry of his cigarette glows brighter as he takes another drag. "It wasn't worth it," he says, pouring more liquor into his glass.

"Vicious is dead, isn't he?" I ask, lighting a smoke of my own. I wish I could see his eyes right now, but I know if I turn on the light, the spell will be broken.

"He's dead, yes, but I thought it would make me feel better, somehow. It didn't. Wasn't that what you were trying to tell me before I left?"

I shrug, although I know he can't see it. "Yes. No. Maybe."

"That's not much of an answer," he says sarcastically.

"I just know I placed so much importance to my past. I was sure everything would fall into place once certain things happened, but it didn't work that way. That emptiness... it doesn't just go away. You have to find something larger to fill it with." I feel myself blushing, and I wish I would have kept my mouth shut. The last thing I want to discuss with Spike is my feelings.

To his credit and my surprise, he doesn't make some snide comment. "What did you find?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Myself, I suppose. Not who I was, or who anyone wanted me to be, but who I am."

We sit in silence until I finish my cigarette. I push back my chair and stand up. "I'm going back to bed. Are you coming?"

"Why, Faye darling, I thought you'd never ask! Tell me, was it my manly charms or the 'back from the dead' bit that did it for you?" he drawls. I can't resist shooting him a murderous stare, even though it's wasted in the darkness.

"You really are a fucking idiot, you know that?" I stomp out of the kitchen and although I can't see it, I know he's smirking.


	3. Chapter Three

When I finally awaken, the sun is high in the sky. My sleep was fitful at best, and my mouth is dry. I stumble into the bathroom to take care of necessities and shower before pulling on a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a loose cotton tank top.

Jet has saved me from breakfast duty. When I make it to the kitchen, he's wearing his silly apron, cooking up bacon and eggs. He smiles at me and places a mug of coffee in my hands, which I accept with bleary-eyed gratitude. After a few sips I'm coherent enough to notice that the haunted look in his eyes is gone. He looks like a new man, and from the way he's flipping the bacon in the skillet, he feels like one as well.

We're alone in the room, so I'm not surprised when he takes a seat across from me and takes a drink from his own cup. "I never expected a day like this to come," he says quietly, and I'm inclined to agree.

"What now?" I ask, half to Jet and half to myself.

He places his hand on my shoulder in a comforting manner and says, "I wish I knew."

Any further conversation is put aside when Ed and Spike stumble in. Jet dishes up the food and breakfast is another cheerful affair. We smile, laugh, and joke.

Something is definitely not right.

Ed and Ein run outside to study the koi pond, so I take the opportunity to join them and get a little sun. My thoughts are swirling around in my head like a thunderstorm, conflicting and clashing, and while I know I need to sort them out, I have no clue as to where to begin.

Besides, all the angst and false cheerfulness is getting to me. I just want a peaceful moment.

Ein's scaring the hell out of the fish, rolling around in the water and splashing for all he's worth. I can scarcely believe this is the same dog that nearly took off my fingers when I was forced to bathe him. Ed is running around with her arms extended, pretending she's an airplane or something.

"Zoooooooommm!"

"Rarf!"

Nope. No peace here.

I sigh and go back inside. I've got my hand on the swinging doors between the kitchen and living room when the sound of voices stop me.

"... changed."

"She took it hard. Left the Bebop, came here, paid off all her debts. Hell, she even sent me money from her catches. Called it payback for the year she lived with us. I didn't want to take it, but she insisted."

My eyes widen when I realize they're talking about me. Half of me wants to waltz in there and give them a piece of my mind, but the other half just leans closer to the door.

I can hear Spike chuckle, genuinely amused. "I had no idea she cared so much."

"I think Faye cares more about all of us than she's willing to admit. You just have to read between the lines- although not so much anymore."

"So when she calls me a lunkhead, it's really a term of endearment?"

"No, she means you're a lunkhead."

I smother a laugh. I always knew Jet was more observant than he let on.

"She does seem different though. It's almost like she doesn't have to prove herself to the world anymore."

The first part of what Jet says is covered by the rattle of dishes, but I catch the end.

"... finally found herself. She's stronger than any of us gave her credit for, and a damn fine woman at that." He laughs a bit. "Never thought I'd say that about Faye, but there it is."

I suddenly feel guilty for eavesdropping, although what Jet says warms me more strongly than the tequila ever did. He's right.

Whatever happens in the future really doesn't matter right now. Spike's back, Jet and Ed are here with me, and for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm not running anymore. I know who I am, because I made myself into that person. I'm strong.

I love Spike, but I won't allow him to take myself away from me. I won't let him shrink me again. No matter what happens, I can handle it.

I'll make sure of it.

I turn soundlessly and head to the television. Big Shots would be coming on soon.

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I tiptoe out of the house, making sure not to turn on any lights or bump into the furniture, and close the door quietly behind me. I listen a moment, and when I'm sure the household is still sleeping, I reach down and pull on the heels I'd carried with me. For three days, I'd hung around the house and kept my guests company, but tonight was going to be all me. There's a big race at the dog track, and I'm going to be there.

I sneak around the corner to where the Red Tail is parked, smoothing my short skirt as I go. While the dress isn't as revealing as I used to wear, it's sexy and classy, perfect for a night at the races. Let some poor sap pay for my drinks tonight; my money is going on the dogs.

I'm just about to climb into the cockpit when he steps around the opposite corner. "Leaving without me?" he asks, an eyebrow raised in amusement.

I whirl around, exasperated. "God damn, Spike! Don't you ever sleep?"

He mock pouts. "But the nocturnal activities around here are so interesting."

"I'm just taking off for a bit. I'll be back before breakfast."

He leans against the side of the house, seemingly calm. "It's not smart to go hunting alone."

As if he's the poster boy for safety and consideration! I narrow my eyes at him. "Oh _really_? I suppose you learned that when you were almost killed?"

Even from ten feet away, I can see him tense. "Cheap shot, Faye." He takes a drag off his cigarette and says nothing more.

I'm stunned. I expect him to put up a fight, throw an insult, something. Instead, he only stands there, his shoulders squared, staring at something just past my head. It's infuriating, and I've had it.

"Look here, asshole. If I want to go out alone, I will, got it? I don't answer to you." I throw up my hands, one of which is clutching a small beaded bag.

I can hear the anger in his voice. "Faye, you're a real bitch, you know that?"

The missing link clicks in to place, and I start to laugh. It's so normal, so Spike, that I can't help myself. This is what I've been missing. Between giggles, I manage to choke out, "I must have forgotten, you damned idiot. No one's been around to reminded me for close to a year."

At first he just stares at me as if I've grown another head, then he starts laughing as well. I can see that he understands and it's like old times again but even better, because for the first time ever, Spike Spiegel and Faye Valentine are on the same page.

"Shrew."

"Jackoff."

"Whore."

"Bastard."

We're laughing so hard that we can barely understand what the other is saying. It feels good, standing in the darkness, swapping insults, and laughing with him.

When he finally catches his breath, he shakes his head. "I can't believe how much I needed that."

I dab at the corner of my eyes where tears of mirth have formed. "Next time don't stay away so long."

He grins and crushes his cigarette butt into the ground. "So, where are you off to, anyway? Just out of curiosity."

I hesitate before answering. "I'm not hunting a bounty."

"Ahh, I see. Puppies or ponies?" He's smirking at me now and I roll my eyes.

"When did I become so transparent?" I mutter, wondering how it was that Spike could read me like a book when he wanted.

"You're not transparent, just predictable. So which is it?"

I give a long-suffering sigh. "Puppies. There's a race tonight and I intent to win."

He nods sagely and studies the Red Tail, walking in a complete circle around it, checking the modifications I've made. "Can this thing hold two?"

I raise an eyebrow but choose my next words carefully. "It's a tight fit, but it can be done. Feel up to it, cowboy?"

He tilts his head toward me, a grin on his lips. "Is that a dare?"

I smirk back, fully enjoying the game. "Should it be?" I ask sweetly.

He snorts and starts to climb into the cockpit, but I hold up a hand to stop him. "No way, Gorgio, not dressed like that."

He stares down at his blue suit, then looks at me with wounded eyes. "What's wrong with my suit?"

I give him the patented female 'look' then point toward the front door. "You've got fifteen minutes, then I'm out of here."

Miracles upon miracles, he obeys without complaint. I sigh when he rounds the corner and disappears into the shadows. My night has just gotten a lot more interesting.

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Hot damn! It's just so wonderful to be me at times!

Spike and I burst through the front door sometime around eight am, whooping and cheering, and immediately surround Jet, each of us trying to talk over the other. There are woolongs falling out of my overstuffed clutch bag, Spike's well tailored black suit pockets, the cleavage of my dress, and the two large bags we're both holding.

We cleaned up at the races and the casino, and I didn't even cheat.

Well... maybe a little. Hey, it's not my fault I can remember all the cards in the deck. I'd bet all my hard-earned woolongs that the dealer can do the same thing, so I was just leveling the odds. But that doesn't matter, because I am four hundred thousand woolongs richer than I was when I left and there are champagne bubbles running through my veins.

I can feel my cheeks flushed with excitement and alcohol, and Spike's been grinning nonstop since we started on our mutual winning streak. I never knew he was a shark at the craps table. Hell, I would have made him my casino buddy a long time ago had I known he could call the dice like that.

Jet's eyes look like they're going to fall out of his head as he tries to decipher our interjected storytelling over the volume of the radio, which is cranked up on some jazz station. His gaze shifts back and forth between us with each new interruption and his eyebrows are about to meet his receding hairline. He opens his mouth a few times, like he wants to say something, but between me and Spike, he can't get a word in edgewise.

"...and that's how I won the first thousand..."

"...but then the lunkhead lost that and another grand at the Blackjack tables before I booted his ass out of there..."

"...that damned shrew has the deck memorized so I left her at the card games..."

"...by the time I was finished, he'd cleaned up at craps and roulette. It should be illegal to be that good..."

"...but for someone who claims to hate dogs so much, she knows how to pick a winner..."

"...did you know his system for dog racing is betting on the catchiest name? Honestly!..."

Jet holds up a hand and we shut up. "How much did you win?"

I smother a grin and try to catch a few woolongs that are threatening to escape from the top of my dress.

"Between the two of us, we made almost a cool million," Spike says, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

I didn't think Jet's eyes could bulge any larger. I was wrong. This was too good to pass up.

"C'mon Jet!" I say, grabbing his hand. "Dance with a rich lady!"

He protests halfheartedly, but I'm having too much fun to care. The song on the radio has a fast, funky jazz beat, and just when I'm ready to admit defeat with my hesitant dance partner, Jet surprises me with an expertly delivered swing-out before sweeping me off my feet. Literally.

Jet leads me around the living room floor in an improvised Lindy Hop. He's grinning, his eyes are flashing, and after the initial shock of discovering that the man can truly dance, I throw a few moves of my own in the mix. Tossing him a wink, I nudge his cybernetic arm out straight before executing a perfect flip over it.

Spike's standing against the wall, his unlit cigarette dangling dangerously from his open mouth. Amazement and amusement are clearly visible in his expression.

"Not bad, old man!" I call out as Jet spins me away from him. He grunts and pulls me back. "Who're you calling old?" he jokes, tossing me into the air.

All too soon the song is over, replaced with a slower bluesy tune. My partner laughingly concedes and collapses on the sofa. "Damn. It's been years since I did that," he says, trying to catch his breath. I'm half drunk and having too much fun to sit just yet. I twirl around the room with an imaginary partner, my eyes closed, not even caring that I'm dancing alone.

My eyes pop open when I hit something solid.

Spike has moved from the wall and is standing in front of me with his arm extended. He takes my hand and launches into the Imperial Swing, a slower dance style than the up tempo Lindy I had just completed. While his moves aren't as precise as Jet's were, they have a slow grace that definitely compliments both the dance and the music that's playing.

"Looks like both of you were holding out on me," I murmur as I pass his side. He just gives me his quirky grin and places his hand at my waist to lead me into a spin. Jet applauds and Ed squeals when she enters the room to see what's going on.

"Ooooh! Teach Ed!"

I plead exhaustion and join Jet on the sofa to watch Spike lead Ed through the basics of swing. She's a surprisingly fast learner, and I can't help but think that a year ago, Spike would have never taken the time to teach Ed anything, let alone how to dance.

Then again, a year ago Spike wouldn't have accompanied me anywhere except a bounty hunt, and no way in hell would he have danced with me willingly.

As I watch their endearingly clumsy attempts at the Jitterbug, I admit to myself that my increased heartbeat has very little to do with with the fast pace of the dancing.


	4. Chapter Four

It's been a week since Spike's 'miraculous resurrection', as Jet calls it, and we've fallen into a comfortable routine. Jet and I trade off on kitchen duty, Spike's continuing with Ed's dancing lessons, and Spike and I bicker and toss insults at each other at every opportunity. It's different now, however. We still snarl at each other, but the bite is gone. It's turned from a one-up contest into playful banter, and even though we still throw the same harsh words at each other, there's a lightness to the tone that has never been there before.

Somehow, by an unspoken agreement, Spike and I have started forging a friendship, and hell has not frozen over.

He's changed. I notice it a hundred times a day in little ways. His kindness to Ed. The way his eyes crinkle at the corner when he laughs. The lack of malice in his smile when he does something to annoy me. Hell, he even voluntarily took Ein for a walk yesterday. If that's not change, I don't know what is.

He's still quiet. Sometimes I see him walking the grounds and I can tell from his body language that he's deep in thought, but it's not the brooding funk he used to wear like a shroud. It's almost as if he's contemplating the universe instead of carrying its weight the way he used to.

I know what that's like. I know what it's like to stop running _from_ and instead start running _to_.

When I thought he was dead, it forced me to own up to a lot of things. After all, when it's only yourself lying in the darkness, it's hard to shut yourself out. Somewhere in the space of the months he was away, I discovered that it's possible to own who you were without letting that dictate who you still are, or will become.

Pretty deep thoughts for a gambling Shrew Woman, eh? I didn't even have to resort to those tacky self-help books to find my answers. I had them inside myself the entire time.

I get the feeling that Spike's still looking for his answers.

I dry my hands on a dish towel and gaze out the window. He's outside again, wandering around the koi pond with his hands buried in his pockets and his head down. He needs a haircut.

Jet and Ed are working together in the living room, looking for the next bounty. Their heads are close together as they lean over Tomato, studying the screen. I sneak out the back door before they can see my smile.

My sneaker clad feet crunch over the gravel as I make my way toward him. I know he can hear my approach, but he keeps his eyes on the fat goldfish cutting through the water. He seems mesmerized by the sunlight reflecting off their scales. I watch them for a minute before saying, "I'm surprised Ein hasn't eaten them yet."

He lets out a sound that is a half snort, half laugh, and I take that as my cue to stay. I crouch down and let my fingertips skim the top of the water. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"What?" he asks, his brow wrinkling in confusion.

Oh, right. He doesn't know what that means. I try a different tactic.

"You know, after my memory came back... it wasn't anything like I imagined it would be. It didn't solve shit. It was so anti-climatic that I was positive there was something I wasn't seeing. I mean, it was supposed to be a big deal, right? My redemption, or maybe my damnation, but it was none of those things. It took a few months for me to realize what it really was." I keep my gaze firmly trained on my fingers sweeping over the water, wondering if he'd understand.

He kneels down as well, folding his long legs and balancing his weight to keep upright. "Which was...?" he asks, his voice low.

I glance at him, but he is staring into the pond.

"A wake up call. An admonition to listen to what my head was telling me late at night when I was too tired to block it out." I pause for a minute, considering, before continuing. "Life is nothing more or less than what we make of it. We control our own destiny, our own actions, our own choices. What we don't control are the actions and choices of others. Each of us have our own paths to walk, and we can't take responsibility for what others do. We control only ourselves. When you realize that, life becomes a hell of a lot less complicated."

I reach out and touch his arm. His gaze shifts from the fish to my fingers, but still he says nothing. "You did what you had to do, just like I did. It didn't give us the answers we were looking for, but that's not the issue. The important thing is that the past doesn't have to dictate our future-- unless we choose to let it. Once I got my head out of the past, I realized the present is a pretty decent place. And who knows, the future might be even better."

He finally looks at me, his expression completely neutral. I try to ignore the disappointment. I'd almost convinced myself that he might want to hear what I had to say. I bite my lower lip to hide the hurt and become engrossed in the fish, and after a moment I begin to withdraw my hand from his arm.

I'm stopped by his large hand covering mine, keeping in on his arm. "When did you become so wise, Faye Valentine?" he asks, and his voice has a rough, emotional edge that makes him sound like a stranger.

I release a deep breath and fumble for my cigarettes with my free hand. "That's a story for another time."

"I'd like to hear it someday," he replies, reaching over and plucking a cigarette out of the pack with nimble fingers.

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Quid pro quo, Cowboy," I answer.

He laughs then, a wry chuckle before lighting his cigarette and mine too. "Gods, you really are a bounty hunter at heart."

I flash a quick grin at him before exhaling a stream of smoke. "I'm insulted that you ever doubted me."

He snorts and shakes his head. We smoke in peace for a few minutes before I rise up, my knees protesting the movement. "One last thing, Spike."

He glances up at me, shading his eyes with his hand.

"If you ever tell anyone what I said, I'll deny every word. I have a reputation to uphold, you know."

He's still laughing when I walk in the house.

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It's not too hard to track down Jet if you need him. I just follow the clanking thumps and the muffled cursing. I locate him, or the lower half of him at least, up under the Bebop, probably repairing yet another faulty whatchamadoozit.

"Don't tell me," I smirk as I lean against the side of the vessel. "You're adding a larger hot water tank?"

"Eh?" Jet's head comes in to view, smeared with grease and currently sporting a rather embarrassed grin. "Naw. I'm finally fitting this baby with a high-powered plasma cannon. Once it's up and running I'm going to take her out for a test spin. Shouldn't take more than a few more hours and she'll be ready for action."

"So I take it the lead turned up dry," I state, studying my fingernails in a bored manner.

He grunts and disappears back under the ship. I have to strain to make out his next words. "Ed's running a trace right now. With any luck, we'll have something by tomorrow."

"In that case, I'm going to make myself scarce for a few hours. If you need me I'll be in the attic."

Of all the rooms in my home, the attic is the one of which I'm the most proud. Half of the long room is covered with exercise mats, with punching bags and a weight bench stashed in the corners. The other half, however, is my pride and joy. I installed an indoor shooting range with three alleys. A professional soundproofed the room and made it safe for high-caliber firing. In addition to the Glock 30 I carry, I also practice with a Winchester .357 Magnum and a Desert Eagle .50 Action Express, and I have some unresolved anger to deal with. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

I retrieve my guns and ammo from the safe in my room and skip up the stairs, humming under my breath. A few rounds with a man-shaped target and everything would be brighter. I was already feeling better just thinking about it.

Once I'm past both security doors, I pop in the earplugs, send my paper target down to the end, load the clip of my Eagle, and take aim.

I spoke the truth to Spike. I'm no longer angry that he went to do what he felt he had to. I'm even angry that for eight...

_(fire)_

... agonizing...

_(fire)_

... months...

_(fire)_

I thought he was dead. I've gotten past that.

No, I'm still furious at _how_ he left.

_(fire)_

He left without a thought to our feelings.

_(fire)_

He left without considering that his friends might have given a damn about whether or not he died.

_(fire)_

It hurts that he didn't care about us, about me, and it hurts that for several months afterward I carried the guilt of letting him walk away.

I still haven't told him that. I don't know if I can.

_(fire)_

The last bullet spent, I flip the switch to bring the target to the front. Hmm. Four head shots, one chest, one shoulder, and one miss. Not bad with a gun this powerful.

I reload the clip, send a new target out, and have another go, this time taking care to keep my aim as straight as possible. The backfire on the Eagle isn't as strong as it should be on a weapon of its caliber, but it's still got a kickback and by the time I've got the third target ready, I can feel the strain in my shoulders.

A movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I turn to see Spike standing up against the safety glass. I motion for him to come through and I pull out an earplug.

"Jet said you were up here," he says as he closes the door behind him.

"Yeah?" I question, loading seven more bullets into the clip.

He's looking around the room with an appreciative eye. "I couldn't understand why anyone, even a shrew like yourself, would want to hang out in the attic. Now I know."

I can't help but chuckle at that, even though I'd a bit annoyed at his intrusion. "Well, you've discovered my secret. Might as well stay and have a few rounds."

His gaze lands on the Eagle when I slide the clip home and his eyes widen perceptibly. "No way are you using that."

"Oh really?" I say, putting my hand on my hip in full bitch mode. "And why not?"

He speaks slowly, as if he's addressing an idiot child. "Faye. That's a .50 Action Express. That's a strong caliber for someone who carries a... well, a Glock."

"As I recall, my Glock is a .45, and your Jericho is a... 9mm, isn't it?" I ask sweetly.

He quirks his brow at me. "My Jericho holds sixteen rounds. Your Glock carries... ten, isn't it?" he mocks in the same syrupy tone.

I gesture impatiently. "That has nothing to do with caliber."

He pulls out his gun and twirls it around his finger before pulling back the slide. "A shoot-out then. It's a little past high noon, but you improvise so well."

I toss my head to hide the blush. I know he's referring to the impromptu dance the other morning, and I pull out my best sneer to mask the discomfort. "My Desert Eagle against your Baby Eagle? You're on-- but you'd better only fire seven bullets. I'll be checking your clip afterward."

He holds out his hand and I pass him earplugs and a target. "Idiotic asshole," I mutter after replacing my own plug.

I should have known that anger management is impossible when Spike Spiegel is anywhere in a fifty mile radius.

_(fire)_

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When Jet walks in, Spike and I are practically nose to nose. The older man sighs wearily. "What now?"

I shake my paper target at him. "You're an impartial judge. Tell this idiot that I won, fair and square!"

Spike glares at us both. "It was a tie!"

"Tie my ass! You're just ticked that I beat you!"

Jet stares at my target, then grabs Spike's, comparing the two. We continue arguing as his gaze shifts rapidly between the two sheets of paper.

"You didn't beat me, you impossible bitch!"

"The proof's right there, jackass!"

"She's right," Jet speaks up. We both look at him, waiting. "The head shots are close, but she's got a dead on heart shot, while yours is closer to the shoulder." I smirk while Spike fumes even more.

"There's a mistake, Jet. I've always been better with a gun than Faye, and that's one she doesn't use often."

That's it. I don't even realize what I'm saying; it just pops out. "Oh, I've used it plenty since you left, you miserable fuck, all the while wishing the target was your goddamned head!"

_Shit_. Did I just say that out loud?

He turns to me, his two-toned eyes blazing with fury. "What did you just say?" he hisses. My stomach clenches, but I stand my ground and stare back at him.

"You heard me," I answer, and even I'm surprised at how cold my voice sounds.

He shoves something smooth and hard into my grasp and stalks away. When he reaches the end of the narrow room, he turns back.

"Here's your chance," he says. I look down at his Jericho, cradled in my small hands, and back at Spike. His eyes bore into mine with an expression I've never known him to have.

Hope. But if it's hope to live or to die, I don't know.

I raise the gun as if I'm sleepwalking and take aim. I see Jet move forward, ready to intervene. "Faye..." he says softly, pleading with me.

The Jericho holds sixteen rounds. Seven have been spent. That leaves nine chances, nine opportunities. Gods, I've dreamed about this too many times.

I recall my words to him, just this morning.

_Each of us have our own paths to walk, and we can't take responsibility for what others do._

_The important thing is that the past doesn't have to dictate our future._

_We control only ourselves._

"Stay back, Jet. This is between me and Spike," I say softly, calmly. At least, I think I say it. Maybe I only imagine that I do.

Jet's staring at me. Spike's eyes are locked with mine.

"Do it, Faye!" he screams.

I squeeze the trigger over and over, until the only sound I hear is the quiet click of an empty chamber.


	5. Chapter Five

Through it all, his eyes never leave mine. There are nine bullets embedded in the wall directly over his shoulder. Had they been on a target, I'd congratulate myself on the great cluster.

"You missed," he says, so quietly I almost miss it.

"No. I didn't," I whisper, before the gun falls from my nerveless grip. Suddenly I'm shaking all over, so cold. I sink down to the floor, gripping the counter for support. I almost shot him. Part of me wanted to, so badly. I wanted to hurt him the way he hurt me.

But I couldn't.

He's next to me, lowering himself to the ground, his arms wrapping around me. "Shhh," he murmurs against my hair. I can feel his breath, warm on my scalp. "It's ok."

"I'm not crying," I manage through chattering teeth.

"I know."

I hear the door close quietly as Jet slips out, and Spike's heartbeat where I'm leaning against his chest. It's still beating, even after all he's been through. It's still beating, and his skin is still warm, and he is still breathing, in and out, in and out against the top of my head.

"You really are a goddamned fool, Spike," I say, and I can feel my trembling lessen a bit.

"I know," he repeats. His voice rumbles in his chest and tickles my head.

"What the fuck did you do that for?" I can't think straight. I keep seeing that unfamiliar hope in his eyes. He never blinked when I fired.

He sighs and moves one of his hands to the underside of my chin, tilts it upward so I'm staring into his eyes once more. "I had to make amends."

I'm not following. "What are you talking about?"

"You're still angry that I left."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

"Nevermind. Yes, I'm still angry. You hurt us by leaving, and you didn't even care."

He tightens his arms around me and shakes his head. "I did care, Faye. It just... didn't seem real. Everything was only a dream."

"There's a difference between dreams and reality, Spike. They're not the same."

The pain in his eyes is so intense that it takes my breath away. "I know that now," he says.

I want to take that hurt away, but my own grief is still too near, so I simply say, "Is that why you wanted me to...?"

The ghost of a smile appears on his lips, turning up the corners just slightly. "I didn't want you to. I trusted you not to. I know I let you down, but you've never failed me."

I've stopped shaking and life slowly creeps back into my numb body. "I almost did," I whisper. "I almost did just now."

"Almost doesn't count," he says confidently.

I smile a bit at that. "No, I guess it doesn't."

His heartbeat is still going strong.

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He knocks twice, then barges right in. I sit up abruptly from the pile of pillows I had been reclining on and drop my paperback on the bed. "Damn it, Spike, I could have been naked in here. Learn some manners already," I snap.

His eyes are alight with mischief and the corners of his lips are twitching. "Oh, sorry. I should come back later."

I huff at him, but gesture to the end of my bed. "Go ahead, have a seat," I say, readjusting my robe.

The mattress sags a bit under his weight. "Here," he offers, opening one of the beers he's holding and passing it to me. He twists the cap off the other one and takes a long drink, then tosses a pack of smokes in the space between us.

I take a swig from the bottle before placing it on my small nightstand. "So what's up?" I ask, curious about the intrusion. We haven't spent much time in each other's company since the incident in the attic two days ago. I was sorting out my own thoughts and he-- well, who knows _what_ he was doing.

"You told me a few days ago that you have a long story to tell me," he replies, lighting a cigarette and gesturing for an ashtray.

I pass it to him, scowling. "No, I said I had a long story, and _you_ said you wanted to hear it."

"And I do," he smirks, leaning back on one elbow.

"Make yourself comfortable, " I say sarcastically. He grins maddeningly and places the beer between his knees.

"So what do you want to know?" he asks.

"What?"

"Quid pro quo, remember? I'm a man of my word."

That shocks me into silence for a few moments. "All right. Your first night here, you said leaving hadn't been worth it. Start with that."

He stares at the ceiling for a long time. I begin to think he's changed his mind, but then he speaks haltingly. "The whole thing with Vicious started with Julia. It made me stupid and blind. I wanted to kill him for having her first, for keeping her from me for three years. I wanted to kill him because she died. So I did."

"I guess I thought the retribution would make up for those three years of being half-alive. I thought maybe I'd die. I thought everything would be better, but it wasn't. Instead, Julia was still dead, the Bebop was nowhere to be found, I hurt you and Jet, and I didn't even have the comfort of my dreams to keep me going."

He lifts his cigarette to his lips before continuing. "I had nothing to lose. I guess I hit rock bottom." He stops speaking, still looking up.

"So what did you do?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I got drunk. I recovered from my injuries. I moped a lot. Then I woke up one morning with the intention of leaving Mars and going after the biggest bad ass I could find, hoping he'd kill me since I couldn't do it myself. I was all ready to go when I had the urge to see the place where Vicious died one last time. That's when I saw you."

He glances over to where I'm sitting, propped against my pillows and headboard with my arms wrapped around me. He takes another drag from his cigarette and averts his eyes from mine.

"Like I said, I didn't recognize you at first. I was behind you, and you were dressed so differently. I saw you with your hand on one of the steps, and the rose. After you left, I walked over to the step and saw my name and the date of my supposed death. That's when it clicked. I tried finding you but you were already gone."

He takes another long drink from his beer. "After that, things seemed clearer. I quit moping and started thinking. I realized what I had put you and Jet through. I thought about my life before Julia, and with her. I realized it had been doomed from the beginning."

"Because she was with Vicious?"

"Well, that too, but mainly because of me. I let her rule my life. She dictated everything, whether she realized it or not. I needed her, you know? And that's not love, it's just obsession. She was everything, and without her I was nothing. That's why it was doomed. Real love is being strong enough to let someone go. I could have never done that if she were alive. I couldn't even do it when she died at first."

He stubs the butt out in the ashtray and drinks again. His beer is almost gone, and mine is still nearly full so I lift it to my lips and drain half.

"It's not that I didn't love her. I did, but it wasn't the right kind of love. It wasn't a love that would have lasted, because before you can live for someone else, you have to live for yourself. That's something I've never done. Not really, anyway."

He grips the bottle so tightly that his knuckles turn white. "So I let her go, and when that was done, I found you and Jet."

I stare at him, taken aback. Never before had he spoken so openly about his thoughts, and I don't know what to say. It seems like I should say something, but I'm at a loss.

He's finished his beer. Lighting another cigarette, he rolls over on his side, his head pillowed by his arm. "Your turn."

"Oh. Well, I guess it started when my memory came back. Like you, I was waiting for the big moment when it all changed. And then you left and we were told you were dead. I guess I went a little crazy."

I take a deep breath and plunge right on. "I kept blaming myself for not killing you. I felt so guilty, because I knew when you left it wouldn't have solved anything for you, and then you died needlessly. I kept thinking if only I'd have shot you myself, you would have died for _something_. I know it sounds crazy."

"Actually, it doesn't," he says. I finish off the beer, then light a cigarette and watch the smoke unfurl from the tip.

"I had no clue who I was. I had these memories, _my_ memories, but they didn't tell me anything. I started building this place so I'd have a roof over my head, and in doing so, I discovered I could be whomever I wanted. I was standing outside, working on the wall for the living room, and it just hit me. It would have been a really spiritual moment, except it was raining and I was pretty much covered with mud from head to toe. So it wasn't spiritual, but it _was_ liberating. I was letting the past dictate the future, and once I figured that out, everything just snapped into place."

"The memories I had of my childhood... that's who I was back then. The year on the Bebop, I was drifting. When I built this place, I poured everything into it-- grief, anger, frustration. It was cleansing, and it made me who I am today. I don't have to be that girl from my memories anymore, and even more importantly, I _can't_ be her. Everything I've gone through has helped change me, and if I insist on hanging on to what used to be, I'd eventually drive myself insane. I think I was half way there when I came here."

I lie back against the pillows and shrug. "That's all, I guess," I say, not wanting to admit my feelings for him on top of it all.

He nods thoughtfully and walks out of the room without a word. When he comes back, he's holding two more beers. "That's not a long story," he points out.

I snort. "I cut out all the angst. Besides, you didn't live it."

"Not the same circumstances, perhaps, but the beat's familiar," he quips, pulling out another smoke.

"Are you calling our lives a jazz tune?" I snicker.

He holds up his hands in surrender. "Isn't everyone's?"

"Hmm. For such an off-the-wall comment, that's pretty deep, Spike."

He leans back once more, his long frame covering the lower half of my bed. "I'm glad you found your answers," he says, and I can tell he means it. I can't help but smile.

"Yeah, well, I'm glad you stuck around instead of letting some scum off you."

He tilts his head to wink at me. "Someone's got to be here to bug you."

I grin at him while rolling my eyes. "God forbid I get a moment's peace."

He starts laughing and I join in, dispelling the painful memories our recounting has dredged up.

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"Faye?"

I glance up from the television screen as Jet moves into the room. "Ed find the bounty?" I ask. It's been a week and a half since we had one and I'm getting antsy.

"Yeah. We're leaving now, you coming?"

I hop off the sofa with a grin. "Where is he?"

"Surprisingly enough, he's here on Earth. Albuquerque." I start to go upstairs to grab extra clips, but he stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. "Er... did you and Spike... well... you're not gonna... ?" He rubs the back of his neck, trying to ask the question without offending me.

I smother a grin at his discomfort. "It's worked out. You don't have to worry about me popping him one in the middle of the trip."

He looks relieved and removes his hand. "Glad to hear it. In that case, find Spike and tell him to get his ass in gear. I'm gonna get the ship ready to go."

It only takes a moment to grab the extra clips and load them. Once I'm stocked, I call for Spike. No answer.

"Spike!"

Silence.

"Hey, lunkhead! Get your ass ready, we've gotta put food on the table!"

Still nothing. He's not on the second floor, nor is he hiding on the first. Grumbling, I climb the stairs again, heading for the attic.

When I walk through the open doorway, his shirtless back is to me. He's throwing punches and kicks into the air with the dangerous grace of a panther, and I feel a pang of regret that I never studied martial arts. The easy pace he is keeping belies the strength behind his movements as he works his way across the room. His muscles are rippling under the smooth skin of his naked back, and it's making my mouth dry and my palms sweat. I can't take my eyes off him.

Anyone who says that men can't be beautiful have never met Spike Spiegel.

He chooses that moment to turn around. I quickly shut my mouth an attempt to school my expression. He waves a hello and grabs a towel, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Why did I come in here again? Oh yeah.

"Ed found the bounty. Jet's getting the ship ready and he said to get moving."

"All right." He uncaps a bottle of water and quickly drains it, giving a small sigh of relief before picking up his shirt. "You ok, Faye?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" I ask, mentally kicking myself.

He glances at me briefly. "You've got an odd look on your face."

Ah, shit. Poker face, Faye. I wet my parched lips with my tongue before answering. "I'm fine. It's just a little hot in here."

Spike hangs the towel around his neck and shifts his shirt to the other hand, bending down so he can retrieve his shoes. "Yeah, it is a bit warm."

You don't know the half of it, Cowboy.

Spike snaps his fingers in front of my face. "Faye!"

"Hmm?" I blink, startled.

"I asked you where we're going," he says, looking at me strangely. I fight the blush that's rising in my cheeks and take a deep breath to calm myself.

"Oh. Albuquerque."

"You sure you're ok? Maybe you should sit this one out," he suggests, pinning me with his gaze.

"No way, " I protest, following him from the room. "You just want my share of the bounty."

"Eh," he shrugs, "I'll catch the guy before you do anyway."

"Like hell you will!" I exclaim, rising to the bait.

"Wanna bet?" he asks, a mischievous grin on his face.


	6. Chapter Six

Shortly before we reach Albuquerque, Jet pops the surprise.

"No. I'm not wearing that, Jet. Forget it," I state, crossing my arms over my chest.

"It's the only way," he says, still holding the black fabric out toward me. "Stone's got himself locked away in his impenetrable fortress and he's not letting anyone else in."

"Fortress?" I repeat, intrigued despite myself.

Jet sighs. "His house, but it's so heavily guarded that no one can get in unless he allows it. He's got some state of the art equipment, so Ed says."

I glance at her but she's typing away at the computer, ignoring us all.

"I don't care, Jet. One of you can wear it."

Jet turns to Spike, his expression clearly saying 'Talk some sense into her, won't you?'

Spike grins widely. "Wouldn't that be a picture! Then again, I _could_ use the five hundred woolongs for getting to him first, since you'd be backing out."

I snatch the clothes from Jet and stamp my foot in frustration. "Oh, you two planned this, didn't you? You set me up. Fine, I'll wear the damn thing!"

As I storm to the bathroom to change, I hear Jet ask, "What's she talking about?" and Spike's answering laughter.

"Oh, nothing really. Just a bet we made."

Five minutes later, I march back into the living area, my expression mutinous. Jet chokes back a laugh and I glare at him.

"This was your damn idea, so don't even say it," I snap, causing his shoulders to shake even harder. "Oh, for God's sake."

Spike smirks up at me from his seat on the yellow couch. "I didn't think nuns were allowed to say that."

"I am _not_ a nun," I growl through gritted teeth.

"You're dressed like one, so you'd better start acting the part," he grins, enjoying this entirely too much. I move forward, fully prepared to smack him one, but he just drawls, "Uh uh. Remember your vows, Sister."

Jet intervenes, handing me a worn leather bible and a rosary. I take them reluctantly, wondering where he came up with them. "You didn't mug a nun, did you?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "I found them in a second-hand shop. Dirt cheap too, but I guess most people wouldn't want to wear a nun's habit."

"No wonder," I gripe, scratching my side. "The damn thing itches."

He moves to the navigational unit and takes a quick look. "We're here. You'd better get out there."

Spike and I leave our ships a few blocks from Stone's 'fortress' and check out the area. There's a bar almost directly across from the entrance to the bounty's house, so Spike saunters over under the pretense of waiting for a friend to join him. When he's in place, I re-adjust the habit and and stride purposefully toward Stone's front door.

There's a small camera mounted on the door frame, and I'm not surprised when a static-y voice answers my knock.

"Yes?"

"Hello. I'm Sister... Mary Margaret. From the convent," I add helpfully, inwardly cursing my lack of knowledge on all things religious. I hear the lock release and reach for the doorknob.

Before I can touch it, a distinctive split second of sound catches my attention-- the _lack_ of sound. A vacuum. Oh _fuck_.

I jerk back and the whole world shatters.

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Drifting drifting drifting...

Voices. Low, can't understand them. Hurts.

Drifting.

Bright. Don't like it. Pressure. Pain.

Drifting.

Voices again. Eyes won't open. Heavy. So tired.

Darkness.

Light again, not so bright. Jet. Hi Jet. Tongue won't work. He speaks gibberish.

Drifting.

Jet again. Cool water. Sleep.

Pain. I open my eyes slowly. Everything hurts. I try to turn my head, but I can't. Someone's holding my hand, but I can't see them.

Drifting.

Voices. Jet and Spike. "... change... will she... bad... stay... bomb... falling..."

Darkness.

Better now. I ache, but I can turn my head. Jet again. My mouth is parched. I try to ask for water, but it comes out as a moan. He holds a glass with a straw to my lips.

"Enough?" he asks quietly.

I try to speak again, and my voice is raspy. "Thanks," I manage.

"How bad is it?"

"Hurts."

He injects something into my arm. "Sleep now. We'll talk when you wake up."

Darkness.

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I drift into consciousness and immediately regret it. Everything hurts. Badly.

I shift a little, trying to get more comfortable. Oh, big mistake. A million red hot particles explode throughout my body. I can't stop the whimper that escapes my lips.

"Try not to move. You're still bad off."

I turn my head toward the voice. Spike's sitting in a chair next to the bed, gripping my hand. I look at him, our joined hand, then his face again, but he doesn't let go.

"Oh, Gods, I'm dying, aren't I?" I ask, panicked.

A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "No, you're not dying, but you gave a damn good show of it."

I try to remember, but everything's fuzzy. It takes a few moments for clarity to return. "There was a bomb," I gasp. "I remember trying to move, but it was too late."

He nods, confirming my fears. "There was a quarter pound of C4 wired to the lock. You're damned lucky you were on the right side of that Kevlar door."

"Stone?" I inquire.

"Dead. The whole damned house exploded. You've got some burns, but the worst of it came from catching a four hundred pound door with your body." His thumb brushes over the top of my hand. "I thought... well, I'm just glad Stone was paranoid enough to install something that could withstand an explosion."

His arm is propped on the bed, and there's a long red gash down it. "What happened to your arm?" I ask.

"Oh, that," he grins self-consciously, "I made friends with a piece of shrapnel."

I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously. "You didn't wait for the shit to stop falling, did you?"

He stares at me in disbelief. "No, I didn't. Should I have sat back and had a beer before checking to see if you were still in one piece?"

"You could have been seriously hurt," I protest. "That was stupid!"

He tightens his hold on my hand. "Damnit, Faye! You _were_seriously hurt. It scared the shit out of me when you went flying backwards. I thought you were fucking _dead_." He turns his head away from me, but not before I see the guilty expression on his face.

Damn it all. He's beating himself up because I got hurt, and then I yell at him for getting me out of there. That hurts more than the injuries. I feel tears forming in the corners of my eyes and there's nothing I can do to hide them.

"Hey," he whispers, leaning over me. "Don't cry. Shit. I'm sorry, Faye, just... don't cry, ok?"

"I... I..." I sniff, trying to stop the tears from falling.

He runs his hand through his hair, agitated. "Please, Faye, I didn't mean to get angry. I don't know what to say."

I bite down on my bottom lip as he hands me a tissue. I try to lift it to my face, but it hurts too much to move my arm. He takes it from me and wipes my cheeks gently.

"I'm sorry, Spike. I didn't mean to get chastise you. I just didn't want you getting hurt on account of me," I say when the tears are gone.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Are you hungry?"

As soon as he mentions food, my stomach rumbles loudly. I give an embarrassed grin and he chuckles. "I'll be right back," he promises, removing his hand.

He returns with a small tray. "Tea and chicken noodle soup," he announces. He places it on the nightstand and helps me sit up. I try to mask the grimace of pain that crosses my face, but he sees it and apologizes anyway.

"How am I supposed to eat?" I grumble. "I can't even move my arms."

He looks from my face to the bowl. "I'll feed you, I suppose."

I smirk at him to cover my embarrassment. "Really? Where's your little white nurse's hat?"

He gives as good as he gets. "You know, this soup does look really tasty. And I _am_ very hungry."

I try to snatch the bowl from him and am rewarded with more pain for my efforts. I hiss between my clenched teeth as he instantly turns contrite.

"Faye! Damn, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be teasing you. Stay still, please." He's hovering over me, looking both panicked and horrified.

"Spike! Stop fucking apologizing! I'm the one who moved. Just give me some soup already."

I feel like a child, opening my mouth each time he holds the spoon to my lips. Through it all, he keeps up a steady stream of conversation, saving us both from any added embarrassment. Despite my hunger, I only manage a small portion of the soup before I'm full.

"I'm surprised you managed this much. It's been a while since your last meal," he says, helping me back lie back down. Even sitting for that short time has tired me out.

Oh, damn. I didn't even think of that. "How long have I been out?" I ask.

He averts his eyes. "Four days."

"Four days! But... I thought everyone was supposed to leave yesterday."

He shrugs and moves to the dresser. "We're staying until you're ok." He picks up a bottle and tips out a pill. "Now that you've eaten, you can take some pain medication."

"I'm ok now," I argue, not knowing why. He gives me a look and says nothing.

I take the pill and close my eyes, waiting for sleep to overtake me. He flicks off the small lamp and settles back in his chair, keeping watch.

Half asleep, I murmur, "It's not your fault, you know."

Right as I drift off, I think I feel someone kiss my forehead and whisper my name.

Maybe it was only a dream.

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I wake once again to an uncomfortable pressure and mentally curse. In desperation, I glance at the chair by my bed to find Spike still sitting there. He's slouched over, asleep, and my hand is trapped by his once more.

If I didn't need a bathroom so badly, I'd lie there and analyze the action. As it is, my bladder is screaming at me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to ask him to help me to the toilet.

I wiggle my fingers cautiously to find the pain has greatly diminished. Slowly, as not to wake him, I slip my hand from his grasp. So far, so good.

Sitting up is a bit of a struggle. By the time I'm upright, I'm breathing heavily and there's sweat dripping from my brow. I move the covers aside to find that I am dressed in a large t-shirt and panties. I'm confused for a moment and then remember the nun's habit. I wonder if it fared any better than I did.

I get my legs over the side of the bed without too much effort. A bed spring creaks and I freeze, staring at the man sleeping at my bedside. He shifts a bit but doesn't wake up.

When I get to my feet, I am forced to grab the side of the bed for support. My legs feel like jell-o and my entire body is screaming at me to lie back down. I grit my teeth and take a small step, then another. I'm dizzy and nauseous, but I really need that bathroom.

Another step. One foot, then the other. I shuffle along at an excruciating pace until I reach the door to the bathroom. I close the door behind me as quietly as I can, then grip the counter, allowing it to support me until I make it to the commode.

Relief washes over me before I realize I have to make it _back_ to the bed. I whisper a stream of curses, but it doesn't make the prospect of a trip back any more pleasant. I stand slowly, hanging on to the towel rack for added support.

It's the flushing of the toilet that does it. He doesn't even knock, just comes flying through the doorway to find me clinging to the blessed towel rack. I'm beet red but it doesn't stop him from ripping me a new one.

"You should have woken me! Shit, how bad are you hurting?"

"Ergh," I manage.

He sighs, moves towards me, then hesitates. "This is probably going to hurt. I'm sorry." He picks me up as gently as possible and carries me back to the soft, wonderful, inviting bed. As he lowers me down, he jokes, "This isn't how I imagined this moment would be."

I give a small smile as he tucks the blankets around me. "I didn't think you imagined it at all, Cowboy," I remark, foolishly pleased. He turns an interesting shade of pink and becomes very interested in the condition of my pillows. I wait until he looks back at me and then I wink.

He chuckles and settles himself back in the chair. This time, he takes my hand before switching off the lamp and I fall asleep with a smile on my lips.


	7. Chapter Seven

It takes less than forty eight hours before I am officially bored shitless.

I've graduated to sitting up on my own, and feeding myself. I still need help to get to and from the bathroom. I've finished the paperback I was reading, watched Ed and Spike's three new dances, played fetch with Ein for half an hour, cheated Jet out of two hundred woolongs in a poker game, and now I want out of this goddamned bed.

Spike's sitting with me again, his hair still damp from a shower. At the moment, he's got a look of thoughtful contemplation on his face.

I wait. This had better be good.

He brightens. "I know one you haven't heard! This guy walks into a bar and--" I hold up a hand to cut him off.

"Spike. Please. You'd think after half a freaking century, they could come up with a better opening line. If the joke's about a guy in a bar, a Polak, or blondes, I've already heard it," I say grumpily.

"Blondes?" he wrinkles his brow in concentration. "There are jokes about blondes?"

"Tons. They didn't stick around?"

He shrugs a bit. "I guess not. Why blondes?"

I grin. "You know... they're said to be ditzy."

"Julia wasn't ditzy," he says, and I kick myself mentally.

"No," I acquiesce. "I don't suppose she was." I turn to stare out the window, but after a few moments the craving for a cigarette kicks in so I look around for a pack. I find one, light a smoke, and realize Spike's watching me.

"Well?" he says. I look at him in confusion so he elaborates. "Tell me a blonde joke."

"Oh. OK, let's see... What's five miles long and has an IQ of forty?"

"Dunno, what?" He leans back in the chair and locks his fingers together behind his head.

"A blonde parade," I snicker. "How do you make a blonde's eyes light up?"

The corner of his mouth is twitching. "How?"

"Shine a flashlight in her eyes."

He chuckles despite himself. "Are they all that bad?" he asks, and I grin. "Yup."

"So why aren't there jokes about purple-haired shrews?" he inquires, flashing me an unreadable look.

"How many women do you see with purple hair?" I answer prosaically.

"Point taken."

I shift positions, grumble, shift again. He notices my discomfort and asks if I need to get up. That's our code words for nature's call. Strange how he'll barge right in without knocking but he won't ask me if I need the bathroom.

"I want a bath," I announce. "It's been almost a week and my vanity is kicking in."

He thinks it over. "I guess there's no reason you can't have one, as long as you don't overdo it."

"Thank you, O Lord and Master," I say acerbically, but allow him to help me up nonetheless. He walks me into the bathroom and starts the water. Once he shuts the door, I realize the problem. I can't lift my arms high enough to pull the shirt over my head.

"Spike?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you send Ed in here please?"

I hear his footsteps move out of the room and return a few minutes later. "She's not here. Jet took her somewhere for the day."

I bite back a curse. "Well, you'll have to do it. Get in here." He pokes his head through the door hesitantly, his eyes averted.

"Do what?"

"I can't get my shirt off," I say bitterly. He moves toward me and with his hands on my shoulders, turns me around so my back is facing him. The shirt obstructs my view for a moment as he lifts it over my head. I'm embarrassed beyond belief, knowing the cuts, burns, and bruises from the explosion are standing out, marring my pale skin. I want him to touch me, but not like this, not when I am standing ugly and vulnerable and helpless. Not when he has to because no one else can.

I draw a shaky breath and mutter my thanks. When I hear him leave the room, I lower myself gently into the steaming water and cry.

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After another three days of rest, I'm declared fit enough to rejoin life outside the bedroom. The bruises are starting to fade, but I'll carry scars from some of the cuts and burns until I can get them cosmetically removed. Thankfully, none of them are on my face. So what if I'm vain? I'm a woman.

Spike and Jet are taking turns catching small bounties to build up the vanishing funds. I'm in the living room watching a soap opera with Ed when Spike comes downstairs with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. "I'm heading out," he says. "I shouldn't be more than four days."

I wince inwardly but keep my poker face in place. This bounty must be bigger than the others if it'll keep him away that long. "Ok," I say, staring at the screen. Ed gives him a cheeky grin and he crosses the room to ruffle her hair.

He hesitates as he passes me before placing a hand on my shoulder. "I expect you to still be in one piece when I get back," he states. "Take it easy, ok?"

"Yes, Daddy," I answer sarcastically. He gives me a penetrating look and I look away before he sees too much.

"I'll keep my communicator on," Spike says to Jet, who's just entered the room from the kitchen. Jet nods and leans against the door frame, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

Spike leans down and brushes his lips against my cheek. I catch my breath at the contact and close my eyes, savoring the moment that's over all too soon. When I open them again he's gone.

I mumble some excuse to Ed and shuffle back to my bedroom as quickly as I can.

A few minutes later Jet knocks on the open door. I look up and attempt a smile. He sits next to me on the bed and says, "You know what I like about bonsai?"

That wasn't what I expected to hear. "What?" I query, glancing over at him.

"They're difficult. Even though they are just plants, there are so many different facets to the care and maintenance. If they were simple, I wouldn't get so much satisfaction from them."

"But Jet, your bonsai look horrible," I can't help but point out.

He laughs. "All the more reason to keep trying, right?"

"But what if you have a bonsai that you really want someone to admire, and you've put a lot of work into it but it's still a little scraggly around the edges, and when you show it to the person, all they can do is talk about a bonsai they once saw that was perfectly shaped and beautiful?"

Jet considers this. "Well, I'd say they were a fool for holding on to something that's gone and missing new possibilities. Faye, Spike's not a fool."

"I know he's not," I reply, clenching my hands together tightly. "But he _is_ difficult."

"No arguments here, " he agrees, giving a half-smile. "How long have you been in love with him?"

"Who said anything about love?" I ask defensively.

"I did," he sternly answers, folding his arms and giving me a look that tolerated no argument.

I sigh and confess, "I'm not sure. It feels like forever though-- well before he left."

He gives a nod as if the answer satisfies him. "Have you told him?"

"Have you gone senile already, Jet?" I glare.

I can tell he's fighting a grin. "Maybe so, but I seem to recall that men often have blind spots where women are concerned, especially women who aren't quick to trust. Anything less than a flashing neon sign gets explained away. You dig?"

I feel a rush of affection for this kind man who's been a father figure to me. "I dig," I say, giving him a grateful smile. He pats my back gently before leaving me to my thoughts.

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On the fourth day of Spike's absence, I am sitting in the backyard on a lounge chair under the pretense of working a crossword puzzle. In reality, I keep sneaking glances at the sky, hoping to see the Swordfish II make a descent.

Jet's happily puttering around the flower beds while Ed and Ein are taking turns chasing each other around the yard. I risk another peek at the clear sky and frown.

"Is Faye Faye stuck?" Ed asks, veering close to my chair. "Ed can make frown go away."

"What? Oh. Yeah. Do you know a..." I scan the puzzle quickly, "... fourteen letter word that means 'the throwing of a person or thing from a window'? Second letter is E."

"Defenestration multiplication annexation!" she calls, zooming away with the Corgi hot on her heels. I pencil in the first word, which fits.

"Hey, thanks!" I yell to her. She waves back and turns to give chase to Ein, who is now 'it'.

The waiting is driving me crazy. I go to the kitchen, grab a bottle of water, and reposition myself on the lounge. After a few minutes, I decide I want a snack, so I go back to the kitchen and reheat some leftovers. After eating a few bites, I wander back outside again and take up the cursed crossword. I can't believe how nervous I am about seeing Spike again. I wonder if he's thought of me at all.

During my fourth trip to the kitchen, I hear the distinctive rumble of a ship's engine. I force myself to wait until he comes through the back door.

When I exit the kitchen, he gives me a wide smile. "Did you keep yourself out of trouble?" he asks, and I laugh.

"Define trouble. Did you catch the bounty?"

He looks affronted. "You have to ask?"

I take a deep breath and look straight into his eyes. "No. I trust you," I tell him simply. Something softens in his gaze and I cross the space between us. "Welcome back," I whisper, wrapping my arms around him.

If he's caught off guard by my gesture he doesn't show it. He returns the embrace easily, cradling me to his chest. After three heartbeats I step back reluctantly, right as the others come inside.

Spike takes his things upstairs and then rejoins us in the living room, recounting his capture of the bounty. It may be my imagination, but it seems his eyes stray to my face more often than normal.

Jet has dinner duty that night, and when he calls for us I escape to my room to wash up first. On my pillow is one perfect red rose. I lift the blossom to my nose and inhale the delicate fragrance, a smile playing on my lips.

Underneath the rose is a note.

_Faye, _

_You left me a rose before when mourning my passing. I leave you a rose now to celebrate my life. Thank you._

The memory of his last words to me before the fight with Vicious play through my mind, and I realize he has found answers of his own.

Jet's right. I have to tell him, and I will.

Tonight.


	8. Chapter Eight

I take a deep breath, hold it for two counts, and exhale slowly. I'm standing outside of Spike's bedroom door, trying to work up the courage to raise my damn hand and knock already.

I've been standing here for two agonizing minutes. I had no idea exactly how long one hundred twenty seconds were before I was staring at the smooth polished wood and brass handle and counting heartbeats.

Another deep breath. If I don't knock soon, he might open the door for whatever reason and see me standing here, and which will be worse? With that thought in mind, I raise my hand and lightly rap my knuckles against the grain.

A slight rustling noise later, he's standing before me, one hand on the door, his tall body leaning against the door frame, clad in nothing but loose cotton pants and a lop-sided smile.

"Got a minute?" I inquire, my heart pounding in my chest. He says nothing, just opens the door wider and stands aside so I can come through. I settle on the end of the bed and tuck my legs underneath me. He closes the door behind me and perches on the edge of the bed, watching me curiously.

"Thanks for the rose," I say hesitantly, gauging his reaction.

His eyes flicker to mine for a brief moment. "I'm just returning the favor," he replies casually, but in that instant our eyes locked, I caught more than nonchalance.

"It's more than that, Spike, and we both know it," I correct him gently. "You can tell me, if you'd like, but even if you don't, I know there's more."

He lets out a shaky breath and runs his hand through the thick hair I love so much. "What can I say? That I'm learning the reality is preferable to the dream? That every day I look around and find new reasons to live life instead of exist in it?"

"That's a good start," I agree, "if it's the truth." He lays back, staring at the ceiling, and I feel a sense of déjà vu sweep over me.

"It is. Being here, with Ed and Jet, and especially you... it's... I don't know. Healing, maybe." He fists his hands in his hair. "I'm not very good at this," he says helplessly.

I laugh a bit at that. "It doesn't matter. I know what you're trying to say."

He sits up suddenly, turning to me and taking my hands in his. "Faye. I'm so sorry, Faye." He's staring at me so intently that I can almost feel the heat rising from his gaze. "You've been in this place. You needed your friends and I wasn't here. I'm so sorry for not being here."

I'm shaken by his apology. Only once before have I ever heard him speak with such sincerity, and that's when he walked away to find out if he was truly alive. And now, he's directing that emotion _to_ me, rather than at me, combined with a vehemence I'd never known him to express verbally.

His eyes are pleading with me to say something. He thinks he needs my forgiveness, but he doesn't. One day he'll see that.

"Spike, you were here with me whether you knew it or not. You're never far from where I am, " I reply, dropping all the masks so he can see me. I won't hide from him any more. I can't, and even if he doesn't feel the same this is something I have to do.

His palms are warm and slightly rough, callused from continuous gunfire recoil. The fingers curl around mine, tightening just the slightest bit. If I weren't so tuned in to his body, I would have missed it.

"Faye?" he whispers, almost as if he speaks normally, I'll disappear out of his life forever.

I release a breath and stare into his eyes, losing and finding myself over and over again in his depths. "I'm in love with you, Spike. I loved you before I knew who I was, and I love you now."

It's that simple, that complicated, and now that it's said it can't be taken back.

One of his hands leaves mine, reaching up to brush a stray hair from my cheek. He tucks it behind my ear and moves his hand around slowly to cradle the back of my head. And then his lips capture mine and the heavens crash down around us.

I've been kissed many times, by many men, but I've never been kissed like this.

I don't have to worry about waking up. We both know this isn't a dream.

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A week later, he knocks on my bedroom door and I know what he's going to say before I even see him. "Come in," I call, standing by the window watching the rain.

The door opens and closes, his footsteps move closer as he maneuvers through the dark room and his strong arms wrap around me from behind. "It's really coming down out there," he remarks to my amusement.

"Way to point out the obvious, Cowboy. It's monsoon season." I can feel his answering chuckle vibrating against my back as I lean into the embrace. We watch the sky together for several moments, and when he speaks again, his voice is subdued.

"Jet says we're flying out tomorrow."

I close my eyes to calm myself. My voice doesn't waver when I answer him. "I figured as much. You know I'm not going."

Spike sighs and tightens his arms around me. "You know I have to."

"Yes."

I know that he's still seeking his answers, and until he is whole he can't give himself to anyone. I know, and I understand. He said it best. He has to learn to live for himself before he can live for anyone else.

This week has been the most wonderful of my life. There's a fragile peace in Spike's eyes that makes me want to laugh, cry, dance, and spin. It makes me want to explore this gift called life and enjoy it fully. It gives me courage.

I love him enough to let him go.

He's never said he loves me. Once, that would have worried me, but not anymore. He's still learning to love himself, and although I have very little patience with anything else, for this, I'll wait. The rewards are worth it.

But Gods, I'll miss him.

I turn around in his embrace and rest my head on his chest. He strokes my hair with one hand and whispers, "I'll visit when I can, and there's always the communicator."

I smile against his shirt. "Who knows? We may run into each other on a bounty hunt."

He gives me one of his patented smirks. "Yeah, so I can bail your ass out again."

"Bastard."

"Shrew."

I look into his face and see the longing there. I know he doesn't want to go. By his expression alone, I can feel all of his doubts and fears coming to surface. He's thinking how simple it would be to stay here instead of continuing his journey. It's the easy thing to do, but what is easy isn't necessarily what's right.

After all we've been through, I want this to be right. We both deserve it.

"I'll miss you, Spike," I whisper, "but I understand why you have to go."

He lowers his face to mine, so that our lips are almost touching. "I'm not gone yet."

There is none of the frantic rush that usually accompanies the first time. There is only Spike gently leading me to the bed, lingering caresses, whispered words of love, and the rain beating at the window while outside a storm rages.

I burn every detail of that night into my memory, not wanting to miss a single second. I trace every inch of him, learning the secrets of his body while sharing mine. I breathe in his scent as he opens his soul to me.

His hands are gentle as they slide over my skin, and joy mingles with sadness as we cling to each other in the ultimate celebration of life. When the wave crashes over me, I drown in the essence.

It tastes of sweat and tears, and through it all, the rain.

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The first rays of dawn peek through my window, shading the room with greys and goldens. I know it's only a matter of time before Jet wakes and rouses his 'crew'. The minutes are winding down, and if I concentrate hard enough I can feel them slipping through my fingers.

"Can't sleep?" Spike asks from next to me in a near-whisper.

Of course I can't. Who would choose to spend these last precious seconds in slumber?

"I want to see the sun come up," I say, rolling over to face him. His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he reaches up and plays with the ends of my hair. I scoot closer, needing to feel his warmth.

The greys and golds give way to sunlight, and all too soon we can hear Jet knocking on Spike's door down the hall.

"Up and at 'em, Spike! Time to start loading!"

He slips his arms around me as we listen to Jet's footsteps recede and I press my face into the curve on his neck.

"We've got to get up now," he murmurs, kissing my fingertips.

"I know."

Jet pounds on Spike's door again, louder this time.

"I guess he doesn't know I'm in here," Spike says, sounding amused. I lean over and give him a kiss.

We sit up slowly, wanting to prolong the moment. I comb my fingers through his dark hair, trying to tame the wildness.

Jet pounds a third time, bellowing now.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" I leap from the bed, snatch my robe on, and open the door. "Don't give yourself an aneurysm, Jet. I can assure you, he's awake." Spike snickers behind me and the sound carries easily to the hallway. Jet turns toward my door, taking in my disheveled appearance and the knowing smirk on my lips. A tinge of pink appears on his grizzled cheeks and he mumbles something about checking the ship before shuffling off.

"Don't give me time to be maudlin or anything," I mutter sarcastically to no one in particular, before stepping back into Spike's arms and closing the door behind me.

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This is it. Everything's been loaded onto the Bebop and I've already said my farewells to Ed and Jet. They're already on board, giving us the privacy for our goodbyes.

I'm not crying, although it's taking tremendous force of will. I know that the slightest show of weakness on my end will change his mind. This is something he needs to do alone, and I'll do whatever I can to make it easier for him.

He's looking down at me, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. "Faye..." he begins, before I silence him with a finger to his lips.

"No regrets," I say, and he gives me a one sided smile that makes my heart race.

"No regrets," he replies, and I can tell he means it.

"When you find yourself out there," I gesture to the sky, "come back and find me here."

He nods. "I'll be back, Faye. I promise you that."

"I know. I trust you."

One last embrace, one last kiss, and he is walking away from me. He's almost to the ship when he turns back to face me, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder, a cigarette between his fingers.

"I love you, Faye Valentine," he calls. "No matter who you are."

Unshed tears are clouding my vision, but I raise one hand in an answering wave.

And then he is gone.

I stare up at the sky, smiling and crying, watching until there is nothing more to see. "See you, Space Cowboy," I murmur before going inside. I know he'll be back. It may be eight days or eight years, but he'll keep his promise.

He loves me enough to return.

He loves me enough to let go.

finis

**A/N:** Wow! I grudgingly started writing this fic the morning of 5/14-- knowing full well that I would be leaving for a two week vacation on 5/19. I didn't want to write it, to be honest. Why? I wanted to do it justice. There are very heavy emotional themes in CB, and I was pretty sure there was no way I could tell the story-- and tell it well-- with just 4 days to write.

However, I knew that if I didn't write it, I'd think about it constantly, which would defeat the entire purpose of taking a nice relaxing vacation. So, I wrote.

And wrote. And wrote some more. I pulled a thirty-two hour stretch at the keys, drank two twelve packs of coke, countless pots of coffee, and smoked three packs of cigarettes. I forgot to cook dinner, slept for four hours, and wrote some more. I pushed aside everything to complete this story.

It is now 1:07 AM on 5/17, and it is done. Three days. I'm still reeling.

This story is very dear to me, and I'm both thrilled and surprised by the wonderful reviews it has gotten. I want to say thank you to everyone who took the time to read this meager offering, and special thanks to the reviewers. I really hope you'll forgive me for not including the traditional fairy-tale ending, but Faye and Spike have a long way to go before they find 'happily ever after'... if indeed such a thing even exists. Maybe loving and being loved in return are as close to the fairy-tale as they are meant to be.

Somehow, I don't think they mind.

k.


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